Going Through the Motions
by WayLowHalo
Summary: He just went through the motions of an old life and pretended to be his former self. Sometimes, in rare moments, he was able to fool himself, but it never lasted. DEATHFIC.


_A/N: Hello all! I'm warning you all now that this story has character death in it. I don't normally do stories like this, I've written of death before but I've always added an uplifting note to it as well, but don't look for that here, you won't find it. I don't know where my inspiration for this one came from; I was just at work the other day and the idea for it popped into my head! Talk about good places to be thinking of stories huh? That being said, I hope you enjoy it and please review to tell me what you think!_

Just Going Through The Motions

Looking back now he knew the phone could not have been ominous sounding. He knew when the phone had rang that night it hadn't worried him. Rationally speaking it was impossible because at the time he hadn't known that the ring of the phone could bring such devastating news. Looking back now he knew that he could not possibly have known that it would be the phone call that would shatter his life so completely. Dr. Gregory House sighed, common sense told him all this but he couldn't help having those other thoughts as his mind relived that night for the millionth time…

* * *

It was nearing 11 in the evening, he had been home for almost an hour and Wilson, who was supposed to be there as well, was late. Damn him. He had stayed behind at the hospital to do paperwork, but he had said he'd be along in a half an hour or so with the beer so they could sit and watch Terminator yet again. Probably one of his bald headed cancer kids had shown up and Wilson, ever the caring Boy Wonder Oncologist had stayed late.

Sometimes having a best friend who had to be there for the world did have its downfalls. He sighed, deciding to call Wilson's cell to bitch at him for being so late. That ought to make him feel better. Just as he was reaching for the phone however, it rang, its loud trill piercing the silence.

Ah, it must be Wilson, finally remembering to call. The bastard better not be telling him that he couldn't find the right beer. It wasn't that difficult. He snatched up the receiver, "You're late," he snarled.

"House?" Tentatively.

_Damn. Not Wilson._ "Depends," House said cautiously.

"House, it's Cuddy," the voice said this time, more sure of herself, but with a trace of something that House couldn't quite define, but that strangely, made him nervous.

"Honey, it's about time you called, I was getting worried!" he said snidely.

"I have some bad news," Cuddy said from the other line. "I'm sorry House."

"The clinic didn't burn down did it?!" House mock gasped, trying to push the disquieting sense of unease away. "Because that would be just _awful!_"

"It's Wilson," Cuddy said, her voice catching slightly.

"What about Wilson?" House asked despite himself, a cold well of fear settling in his gut.

"House he's… Oh God House, I'm so sorry, he's dead." Cuddy's voice broke down completely now as House stood holding his phone, shock spreading throughout him.

"What do you mean?" House asked, his mind refusing to comprehend and his voice remaining sickly calm. _Wilson couldn't be dead, impossible!_

"It was a car accident of sorts," Cuddy explained gently, her voice shaking with her own suppressed emotion. "He was leaving and he was walking through the parking lot when out of no where a truck barreled up to him and smashed him against the wall of the parking garage."

"Smashed?" House repeated, frustration entering his voice. _Wilson couldn't be dead! He was coming here damnit! He was coming and he was bringing beer and they were going to watch Terminator!_

"Only for a moment or two, it was a hit and run, but that's all it took," Cuddy's voice floated through the confusion roaring in his brain as though from a great distance. "He never even made it to the emergency room," Cuddy said now. "He died on a stretcher in the elevator."

_Died in the elevator? Wilson, dead? _It was all to confusing; the idea of Wilson being dead didn't seem to fit in his head. Suddenly it was all too much for him. "I'll be there in ten minutes," he muttered into the phone.

Dimly he heard Cuddy's voice telling him to stay put. She would send a cab for him, but the words didn't seem to make sense anymore and he hung up without another word. He had to get to the hospital. _Jimmy couldn't be dead._ He would get to the hospital and Wilson would be there, looking slightly puzzled to see House. He would ask him what he was doing back at the hospital, and he would say that he had the beer in his car and _would not_ be smashed and he was on his way to watch the movie.

That's what House told himself as he grabbed his jacket and left his apartment, not even realizing as he did so that he left his door hanging wide open. Getting on his bike he zoomed off into the night. Jimmy would be alive and well at the hospital. He had to be.

The hospital loomed out of the darkness with House not even remembering his frantic ride there. He killed the engine with a decisive turn of his key and jerked his cane out of its holder. Limping through the hospital doors he spotted Cuddy striding toward him, looking harried and distraught. Her eyes were bloodshot and her hair was frizzed out and wild, looking very much like she had dragged her fingers through it repeatedly.

"I told you to stay put!" she accused. "I said I would send a cab for you!"

"Bike works fine," House grunted, eyes searching the lobby. "Where's Wilson?"

"The morgue," Cuddy said shakily.

"What's he doing there?" House snapped and strode off toward the elevators.

Cuddy's eyes widened in shock for a moment before hurrying after him, "What the hell do you mean what's he doing there? House, I told you, he's dead," she said, her voice breaking with grief and a newfound concern for House.

House didn't reply, just angrily jabbed a button in the elevator as Cuddy quickly scooted in beside him. The ride down was quiet, with Cuddy chancing glances at House every few seconds and House still and silent, staring straight ahead. His lips were drawn tightly together and the expression in his ice blue eyes was unreadable.

The elevator screeched to a halt and with a speed surprising for a man with a cane House was out and entering the mortuary doors, his eyes searching. "Wilson," he said softly, spotting the particular body lying on a table as Cuddy came up behind him. He spoke in barely above a whisper but she heard and placed a hand on his shoulder.

House shrugged off the hand and stepped forward, only then seeing the figure in the chair next to Wilson's body. "What are _you_ doing here?" he demanded gruffly.

"I was… I was with him in the parking lot when…" Cameron said, trailing off as she stood, her eyes filling with tears.

"You were with him?" House said sharply, glancing at Cuddy who nodded.

"Yes," Cameron said hesitantly. "We were walking out together. After… when he was wheeled in, Cuddy met us at the door and we rushed him to the elevator," Cameron stopped here, swallowing before saying, "Before… before he… died… he mentioned you. He said you'd be mad he was going to miss the movie and he was sorry."

"Oh," House muttered, looking anywhere but at the two women and the body on the table, wishing they would all just go away. Desperately wishing he would wake up from this nightmare. Somewhere, in some deep unwilling corner of his mind he knew this was real though. Knew he would never wake up form this worst of all nightmares.

"He wanted us to tell you something else too." That was Cuddy speaking and with an effort House forced himself to listen to what she was saying for once. "He said, bros before hoes, always."

House swallowed, looking away again, his eyes finding Wilson's body and a strange mist obscuring his vision. Cuddy motioned to Cameron and they both quietly retreated, leaving House with his best friend for the last time.

Heavily, he stepped forward, pain shooting through his leg as he lowered himself into the chair Cameron had vacated. Without thinking he dry swallowed a couple of Vicodin as he stared at his friend's body. Finally, his conscious mind seemed to grasp the concept that Wilson was truly dead and with that revelation came a pain so deep and utterly and completely real that he gasped and doubled over in his chair.

Wilson was really dead. _No, how could that be true?_ A part of his mind screamed for it not to be true and yet the evidence was lying right here in front of him. _Bros before hoes._ House remembered when he had said that to Wilson and how the younger man had rolled his eyes in apparent exasperation. He had obviously remembered it though, enough so that he forced it out with his dying breath.

How long House sat there in the cold mortuary he really didn't know. "So it comes to this?" he murmured at last. "You shouldn't have been in that garage Jimmy!" he said, irrational anger at his friend flaring up. "You should have left when I did, the paperwork would have waited!" The corpse on the table however, made no response and House felt a deep and desperate despair welling inside him. _This was not how it was supposed to be!_ Eventually he dragged himself up, and staring down at his friend he quietly murmured the words, "Bros before hoes always man," before gently pulling the cover up and over Wilson's head and exiting the room.

* * *

The funeral was a week later, ironically, on a clear and sunny day. All of the nurses that Wilson had flirted with from the hospital were in attendance. Cuddy of course, and House's three ducklings, and all of the Oncology Department were also there. Wilson's parents and younger brother Ryan were up front; countless others that House didn't know or care about were there as well. Wilson's ex-wives, House noted, were glaringly absent.

House, himself, was in a corner away from all the others, watching the proceedings in a cold silence. Few of these people ever actually knew Wilson, certainly not the old rabbi giving the eulogy of which House paid little to no attention. He kept his eyes on the casket until they lowered it and he could see it no longer. He watched as people threw dirt in the freshly dug grave and slowly left, giving their condolences to the family. After awhile he was the only one left standing at the grave. The grave of the only person who had ever stuck by him one hundred percent. The grave of his best friend. The grave of a large part of himself.

* * *

He returned to work shortly after, missing only the minimal amount of time that Cuddy thought was necessary for him after the death of his friend. Everyone agreed he wasn't the same though. The general consensus among the hospital employees was that something deep and irreparable inside of him had been broken the night Dr. James Wilson had died and that was the reason he seemed so empty these days.

He was still brilliant and he was still abrasive and rude, but it lacked a certain fire that used to be so very apparent to those who knew him. The cases didn't seem to interest him anymore either and he didn't argue or refuse to take any of them. He took whatever came his way without complaint and set to work solving them. It was just to fill up the time though. His team noticed the difference in their boss and talked about it amongst themselves but they didn't know what, if anything, they could do about it.

Cuddy treated him much the same as she always had, but if you looked into her eyes it became apparent to those accustomed to looking that she mourned the loss of not only one of her doctors, but two. She understood that House, who had been so deeply wounded in his past, could not get over the death of Wilson, the last person who had meant anything at all to him.

* * *

For House's part, he went through each day with an underlying numbness to the world in general which masked him from everything. The people and the cases meant nothing to him anymore. He just went through the motions of a life that was forever gone from him and pretended to be his old self. He knew he wasn't fooling everybody, but the patients didn't know the difference. They didn't know their doctor was dead inside, and as long as he cured them they didn't really care. Sometimes, in rare moments, he was able to fool himself, but it never lasted.

He rarely went home now, and at night, sitting in his office, his mind would frequently return to that fateful night and the ringing of his phone. He cursed himself for ever answering it, because you see, a part of him believed that if he hadn't, none of this would have ever happened. He could still be sitting in his apartment, Wilson by his side, laughing and drinking beer. He almost believed it. Almost, but not quite. That damn rational part of his mind that he used to cling to knew that it wasn't true. That even if he had ignored the phone Wilson would still be dead. Dead and beyond House's reach forever.

The rare times that he did go to his apartment he would toss and turn in the bed, staring at the ceiling. Eventually he'd wander out into his living room to stare at his phone, remembering. After awhile he might decide to play the piano. It was only at the piano that the numbness would fade and his emotions and grief would flow out through his fingers and into the keys, a sad and poignant melody filling his apartment. The only true expression of what his life was like these days. Then, invariably, the phone would ring, jarring him back to the present and his numbness. Ignoring the phone he would grab fresh clothes and a bag and leave, heading for the hospital. Numb. Empty. Just going through the motions.

The End 


End file.
